


The Importance of Timing

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Episode: s03e06 Mors Praematura, First Kiss, Fluff and Crack, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Marshmallows, Missing Scene, Pining, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, So Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:46:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9521360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: If he was going to successfully flirt with John, he'd have to learn to pick his moments.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bliphany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bliphany/gifts).



> Inspired by bliphany's tags on this post: [tumblr link](http://bliphany.tumblr.com/post/155335309074/writing-prompt-164)
> 
> Huge thanks to Michaelssw0rd, for beta reading. She made this much much better than it was originally.
> 
> (Also, I promise I didn't copy her [Expert flirting](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9437480). We both latched onto the same prompt independently.)

Mr. Reese had begun flirting with him only a few weeks after they started working together. Harold understood perfectly well that covert agents often employed methods of seduction in order to glean personal information from their targets. So he ignored all of these instances. Besides, Harold had never been very susceptible to flattery.

 

As time passed, and they got to know each other better, John stopped digging into his past, and the flirtations largely went away as well. Harold was perfectly content to share breakfast with John. He no longer needed to stop at the diner on his way to the library. He would simply go straight there, and John would set his tea down at Harold's elbow, and their day would begin.

 

Sometimes John would still commence a call by asking whether Harold missed him, but this was a teasing phrase which he also used with Carter and Fusco, just part of John's peculiar sense of humor.

 

It wasn't until the rooftop that Harold realized. He _would_ miss John. So badly that it was worth dying with him, if he couldn't disarm the bomb vest.

 

After that close call, Harold began to touch John more. At first, simply to reassure himself that John was alive and intact, or to get his attention. But then he did it for increasingly trivial reasons. It was not strictly necessary to neaten John's tie for him, or to smooth the creases from John's shirt with his hands. Of course, it was well that John should look smart, but a quiet word and John could have done these things for himself.

 

One afternoon, John popped back to the library for a change of shirt. He'd been running and fighting all morning, and all that was left was to reassure their number she was now safe. John had tucked the fresh shirt in, positioned his weapon at his back and run a comb through his hair, but he'd failed to notice the splatter of blood flecks dotted over his neck and chin. Harold stopped him before he could leave.

 

"Stay there, just a moment." He got up from his chair and took out his handkerchief, moistening it with a dab of his tongue. "You've caught a small amount of...spray." Harold cleaned the worst of the dried blood from John's skin, frowning in concentration.

 

John's hand rested on Harold's arm. His eyes were fond. "Must have been when I broke that guy's nose. Thanks, Harold."

 

They moved apart. Harold let his hands fall, watching John leave.

 

That night, Harold dreamt of kissing John's bruised knuckles. Dream John had pulled Harold into his arms, their chests and hips and knees touching. Harold had woken up slowly, cloaked with a feeling of utter contentment, Bear snoring softly at the foot of his bed.

 

Then Harold sat bolt upright, causing a sudden shock of pain from his back and hip. He sat there panting, hand curled protectively at the back of his neck, lest that spasm too and ruin his day entirely. Tentatively, he reached for his glasses, slid them on. He'd disturbed Bear, who looked at him mournfully. The dog carefully made his way up the bed to set his snout on Harold's knee. 

 

Grateful, Harold gently tugged at Bear's ears. "I love him," he whispered, voicing the realization which had made him sit up with a start.

 

A few hours later, when John came to join him on a stakeout, Harold could not help seeing him differently. The confident swing of his walk as he headed for Harold's car, and the delicate skin under his eyes, where it was clear he had not been getting enough sleep. Harold looked at John's pristine white shirt, remembered the feel of it beneath his hands, and stared hurriedly out of the windshield.

 

He couldn't help thinking...what if none of John's initial flirting had been a ploy? Had he been genuinely attracted to Harold once? Could he be still?

 

Harold had to find out. Over the next few weeks, he took extra pains to see to John's needs. New pairs of shoes appeared in his closet, to replace the ones where he'd worn down the soles. The fruit bowl in his kitchen was fully stocked with exotic variety. His arsenal expanded with a few more high-end, semi-legal weapons. Not that John needed any more, but that was besides the point. John had previously mentioned their effectiveness and admired their design, but for whatever reason had not acquired them on his own.

 

Harold tried not to be ostentatious with these gifts. He hoped that...a return to the early days, when John had had next to nothing and Harold had gladly showered him with creature comforts...might bring back John's little declarations of gratitude and statements of affection.

 

It was rather vain, he supposed. At the time, Harold had been embarrassed and uncomfortable about John's overtures, and now he wanted them back?

 

He knew that John had seen and begun to use these new things. Reese's habit of putting his legs up on the desk let Harold see the bottom of his shoes more often than he'd like. But John had not said a word. Harold knew that John was not particularly motivated by belongings. So he tried a more direct approach.

 

"Mr. Reese, would you have dinner with me tonight?"

 

There was a brief pause on the phone line. _"You mean...at a restaurant?"_

 

Harold's hands were shaking. "Yes. As a major shareholder, Mr. Crane was granted a reservation at Kurumazushi. It seems a shame to waste it."

 

_"Um. I'm kinda tired, Finch. Maybe another night?"_

 

Harold's face fell. "Of course." He said brightly, but not particularly convincingly. He couldn't argue. He'd been the one sending John little texts to remind him to eat and sleep more regularly. He was probably coming across like some nagging housewife.

 

John signed off for the night, and Harold hit the button on his keyboard to terminate the call more forcefully than intended. He got up and took Bear on a long walk, then cooked himself some pasta and went to bed feeling cold and sore and irritable.

 

He backed off for the time being, reminding himself sternly that the numbers were more important than anything. After all, he and John were doing this work because they had already given up on having personal lives.

 

...What did he know about John's personal life, anyway? Mr. Reese was exceedingly discreet, for which Harold was very grateful, and besides, he respected John's privacy. Mostly. He definitely did not get out his laptop, activate the hidden cameras and ensure that John was sound asleep in his apartment. Alone.

 

The next time John put his arm around him, he was herding him away from a gasoline-filled storage unit. The fireball had exploded out and up, melting the door handles from the neighboring units. Reese and Finch and Sloane were tucked away inside an empty one opposite, protected by the metal door and sheer dumb luck. None of them were sure that the door would stop it. John had instinctively put his back between the fire and Harold, trying to cover the parts of him that were wet with gas. His hand was on top of Harold's head, tucking it down against John's shoulder. They stayed there for several minutes, breathing heavily, until the fire had burnt itself out. Soaked and shivering and understandably terrified, Harold allowed himself the luxury of leaning against John, burying his face in John's shirt. John's thumb in Harold's hair stroked tiny soothing circles on his scalp. Then gradually they separated, and brought Sloane back with them to the safehouse. What with protecting Sloane and worrying about Vigilance's increasingly unpredictable activities, it was several days before Harold considered the moment in the context of his feelings for John.

  

He was back at the library. He'd taken Ms. Groves her evening meal, and Bear was asleep in his bed on the floor. Harold leaned back in his desk chair and touched the side of his own head. John had rescued him. That was nothing new. John would always protect him, even when Harold told him not to. But John had cradled his head and stroked it. It could mean nothing, or it could mean everything. Harold could have imagined it - perhaps it wasn't a deliberate caress, John simply flexing his hand - but he thought not. 

 

It was such a small thing, but it was enough to renew his hopes.

 

"You look rather fetching today, Mr. Reese," Harold said cheerfully, when the man strode towards him along the library corridor.

 

Then Ms. Shaw appeared behind John at the top of the steps. Harold cringed. Shaw raised her eyebrows at Finch and then looked interrogatively at John.

 

Reese shrugged at her, his expression one of innocent confusion. Then he reluctantly said "Thanks, Finch," with just a hint of a side-eye. Harold hoped he wouldn't try to recommend some kind of psychiatric evaluation, although given his vigilante day job and choice of murderous friends, perhaps he was long overdue.

 

If he was going to successfully flirt with John, he'd have to learn to pick his moments.

 

Explosions. John was impressed by really big explosions, right? Especially ones that Finch had a hand in planning.

 

"...You and Shaw did this?" John was leaning over his shoulder, watching the destruction of the drugs lab on the screens. It was...well, 'epic'.

 

Harold turned in his chair, caught John's eye, and winked at him.

 

John's eyes went very wide and delighted. "Did you just wink at me?" He waggled his fingers between them.

 

Harold inwardly debated the wisdom of doing it again. He decided against.

 

"I didn't know you could wink," John said, apparently treating it like another piece of the jigsaw he was forever building, made of information about Harold.

 

A few days later, Harold asked John to help him tidy up the philosophy section. Since they had no new number, and nothing else to do, John reluctantly agreed. This came with the added perk that Harold got to do a lot of watching John bend over to reach the lower shelves. Unfortunately, John eventually caught him looking.

 

"Are you staring at my ass?"

 

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Reese," Harold replied loftily, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

 

After that, Harold lost all semblance of restraint. He'd crossed the line into desperation at some point, and he was determined to force John's hand, somehow. From then on, whenever he wanted to touch John, he did. Whether it was a casual pat on John's back as they walked through the streets, or a gentle squeeze of the hand to thank him for bringing that morning cup of tea. John seemed bewildered by all of it, but he didn't move away.

 

It happened the one time Harold wasn't actively trying. They were in the library, waiting for a facial-matching algorithm to run. John was sitting in Harold's chair, Harold standing close by him. In addition to ice-cream and donuts, Harold happened to let slip his secret fondness for marshmallows. (Although not in hot cocoa, thank you very much, that bizarre practice was merely tacky.) Instead of teasing him, John launched into a story from his Army days.

 

"Don't ask me how or why, but one of our ration shipments got mixed up with a stock delivery meant for a sweet shop. I arrived back at barracks to find Riggs, Lane and Carpenter, lying on the floor, groaning and clutching their stomachs because they'd eaten too many marshmallows!" John laughed, and his laughter was infectious.

 

As they grinned at each other, the alert went off to signal that the algorithm had finished. Harold began to usher John out of the chair, so they could get back to work, but as he did so, he affectionately ruffled Reese's hair.

 

John paused, and reached up to tweak it back into order with his fingers.

 

He stood, and let Harold reclaim his seat. "Who are you and what have you done with Harold Finch?"

 

"You'll never know," Harold replied, playfully mysterious.

 

"You're cute," John said, with a smirk.

 

Harold froze and glanced up at him then. Finally, success. Reese had flirted back. They were both on the same page, at the same time, both ready to acknowledge it.

 

The next morning, John walked into the library with the usual green tea and a not-so-usual bag of marshmallows. He put them down on the desk quietly.

 

"You've been flirting with me," John said, leaning down close to Harold's ear.

 

Harold quirked an eyebrow. "It's about time you noticed."

 

John chuckled, fond. "I would have realized sooner...only you're kind of bad at it."

 

Harold shrugged. "Human interaction. I suppose I can't be good at everything."

 

"You're incredible," John said firmly. It sounded like he really meant it.

 

Harold turned his chair around and got up. He reached out and touched his fingers to John's cheek.

 

John covered Harold's hand with his own. "Oh, did I get blood on my face again?" He teased.

 

Harold shook his head. "No, John." Then he kissed him.

 

John gave a happy sigh, his hands drifting to Harold's shoulders, trailing gently down along his arms. His lips parted and Harold pressed for more, only stopping when his glasses slid askew.

 

John positioned them back level on his nose for him. He gave Harold an encouraging squeeze. "See, that wasn't bad at all."

 

Ever the perfectionist, Harold said: "I can do better." And he leant in for another go.


End file.
